


Bass

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-28 18:20:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20970956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Melkor’s music is a nightmare.





	Bass

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Melkor is an amazing, mouth-watering specimen of sheer power and testosterone. He’s tall, broad, dark, _incredibly_ handsome, and he has a way of whipping Mairon into submission with even the softest whisper. He’s the sort of person that walks with an air of purpose and radiates sheer dominance. For the most part, Mairon _adores_ serving him.

Mairon likes waking up next to him in the mornings, sticky and messy and thoroughly sore from last night’s fun. Mairon doesn’t mind that some of the sheets are still glued to his body, that he can still feel Melkor’s teeth in his shoulder—he doesn’t even mind being made to wait while his master gets first crack at the shower. He’d _like_ to see if they could both fit in it at once, but Melkor’s morning rituals are a sacred thing that Mairon’s not permitted to enter. He doesn’t mind waiting in bed for his turn, because Melkor’s pillow still smells of him, and Mairon’s a greedy masochist that loves breathing that in. 

What he _does_ mind is hearing Melkor’s piercing voice crack right through the walls. It’s Melkor’s one failing. He’s actually an amazing singer when he sticks to his own genre—but _only_ then. When he tries anything else—rap, pop, and Eru forbid, _country_—he’s worse than nails on a chalkboard. It makes it impossible to drift back to sleep. It makes Mairon’s asshole clench in a bad way, because he can’t believe he let someone that tone-deaf fuck him all night. 

Most days, he tries to ignore it. He does, after all, love his boyfriend, in the sick, twisted way that they do ‘love.’ He _certainly_ loves being in Melkor’s bed, and he’s not willing to move down the hall to the guest bedroom, where noise from the en-suite probably won’t reach him. Even when he’s gritting his teeth and burying his head under the blankets, it grates at him. 

Then it goes _too far_. He hears the first few broken notes of a stupid teenage summer anthem, revolving around a cliché romance on the beach, and Mairon loses it. He’d never, ever admit it aloud, but that useless piece of bubblegum pop is his absolute _favourite_ song of all time, and he can’t let Melkor ruin it for him. 

He pushes out of bed. He ignores the limp that often doesn’t dissipate until somewhere around noon. Still naked, he hobbles into the washroom, through the clouds of rising steam. 

He sucks in a breath, then pulls the shower curtain aside. 

Melkor cuts off abruptly. It’s right before the first chorus, thank Eru. His face turns to Mairon, eyes squinting. The water continues to beat down across his chiseled body and make every bulging muscle shimmer in the bright fluorescent light.

Mairon tells him bluntly, “You suck. Please stop.” Unfortunately, Mairon’s not a particularly nice person either, and living with Melkor certainly hasn’t taught him diplomacy.

Melkor absolutely _glares._ The look is so icy that Mairon, _Mairon_, who’s typical body temperature tends to border on feverish, actually feels cold. Fear prickles down his spine, both in the general, I’ve-pissed-off-a-psychopath, and the slightly sexier, ooh-my-dom’s-mad, kind of ways. Melkor’s the only person who’s ever made him feel that way. 

He both hates and loves that he has to mumble, “Sorry.” He shuts the curtain again. He wants to climb in with Melkor but doesn’t dare. 

With a deep breath, he heads back to bed. His favourite song, even louder and further butchered, follows right behind him.


End file.
